There is something exquisitely romantic about the decrepit village train station at 10 o’clock in the morning. The crisp morning bite is still in the air, but the morning’s commuters have long ago dispersed, scurrying out to their various destinations like ants from a disturbed nest. Trains continue to move according to their regular schedules, either coming to a halt at the platform, or speeding past with a penetrating blast of the horn.

It is usually only me on the third platform at this time; it is the penultimate stop from the end of the line, meaning that there is only one possible destination from here. The end is a destination much the same as the one I come to: a small station in a minor, insignificant town. Not many people wish to visit it – most people riding to the end of the line are school children, or commuters who all work in the same large office block in the town. It did not take me long, after I moved here a few years ago, to adjust my schedule so that it avoided the crowds of gaggling youngsters and miserable-faced 30-somethings. Misanthropic I may be, but this did indeed serve a purely practical purpose. I would physically feel my stress levels soar as I was the victim of yet another person’s blatant disregard for the ‘quiet zone’ of the train. The regular fare-evading I would watch as a tired train guard preyed on an innocent teenager who had misplaced their ticket, while the silent commuter adjacent to the prey sat in satisfied contentment that their own sin would go undiscovered for yet another day. The perpetual battle of the ‘Local Comprehensive Chavs’ vs ‘Private School Preps’. Window open or window shut? The ever-present lone shape shifter, who would always, without fail, sit in a six seat bay, when a two seat bay was available. For the sake of my own well-being and sanity, I would delay my daily travel by two hours, to avoid the infuriating flaws of people who I did not know, but felt I knew far too well.

I liked my schedule, and had grown comfortable with it. It suited me well, and I felt that I was doing my lonely train a service by boarding at this time, so that it continued to have a purpose. This was a responsibility I took upon myself with the greatest of commitment, and so I was understandably disturbed when I arrived at the train station on the morning in question, to find an individual sitting on the ground, with his legs dangling over the edge of the platform. I did not recognise him, and so did not understand why he was there at this time. It bothered me that he was there. I felt that maybe I should go to him, and ask who he was. Why he was there at 10 o’clock in the morning, when he had never been before. If he was intending to make this a regular occurrence.

But it seemed to me that this may be too personal. People do not like to make contact with other people unless absolutely necessary. People avoid not only verbal contact, but eye contact, geographical proximity, and certainly body contact. People are described in ecological and evolutionary studies as ‘social creatures’, but this is a lie. People are not social creatures at all, but more solitary souls that are condemned to socialise, because without this function we would go nowhere, and achieve nothing. People are not really human, but parasitic - feeding off the skills and energy of others, so that we can fuel our own movement in the direction that we think we should be taking. There would really be no use in approaching the boy and asking who he was and why he was there and if he was going to be there tomorrow or the next day or the days following.

But his presence continued to make me uneasy. I looked at the clock on the station platform: 9:53. The train that I get on every morning is reliable, usually turning up at 9:59 and leaving at 10:00 sharp. Underneath the clock is the live running schedule of the trains, and I was irritated to see that my train was delayed by 4 minutes. This meant that there were 11 minutes until the train would leave my platform with me, and presumably this boy, on board. This was unusual. I could see my seat a short walk down the platform, and I approached it, because my schedule was now disturbed enough, and I saw no reason to allow this boy’s presence to stop me from taking my usual seat.

I sat down, and was almost directly behind the boy, who was still sitting on the platform edge, dangling his legs over the side. I was closer to him now, and saw that he was wearing the uniform of the private school. This meant that he was late for school already, and the delayed train meant that he would be even later. I was happy to see that he was in school uniform. This meant that he would not be at the station every morning when I was, meaning that my schedule would return to normal. Good. I could see that the boy was about 16 years old, nearly 10 years my junior. He was quite small, but the whisper of facial hair around his jawline told me that he was older than his size suggested. He had a rucksack next to him on the platform, and I could see a pair of shiny black school shoes protruding from the bag. I wondered what he had on his feet. Probably trainers for walking to school, or for sports lessons. In between the bag and the boy were a pair of socks, unfolded and crumpled, as if they had just been taken off of his feet. This bothered me. Why had he taken his socks off? It was a November morning, and the frost was beginning to take hold. The boy was hunched over as if he were cold, but seemed to be making no effort to warm up. I thought that his toes must be cold. Maybe his socks had a hole in. And his smart shoes were rubbing through the hole, so he had changed in to trainers for a more comfortable journey to school. Maybe he was late because he had noticed the hole, returned home for another pair of socks, but not been able to find any.
I felt sorry for the boy, although his presence still annoyed me. I knew there were some socks in my bag, because I carry a spare pair of everything, in case it rains and my umbrella breaks, or in case somebody throws something at me and dirties my clothes. I found the socks, and held them in my hand for a moment. I could take them to the boy, and use the opportunity to make sure that he would not be here again tomorrow. Yes. I looked at the clock again. It was now 9:56, and the train was still expected at 10:04.

“Do your socks have a hole in them?”

His head shot round; he did not seem to have realised I was there. I was standing directly besides him now, facing towards him and looking down to where he was sat.

“What?” he said.

“Your socks. Do they have a hole?” I said.

He looked dazed, so I held out the socks in my hand to him.

“You can have these,” I said. “Keep them so you can put your smart shoes back on, you don’t need to give them back. You won’t be here again, will you?”

He continued to look at me, and now appeared suspicious. I looked down at his feet, and saw that he didn’t have trainers on, but his feet were bare.
“Aren’t your feet cold?”

He looked down at his feet, and fixed on them for 10 seconds.

“Don’t try to stop me,” he said.

“Stop you doing what?”

“Jumping.”

“Where?”

“What?”

“Jumping where?”

He moved his eyes slowly from his feet to me.

“In front of the train,” he said, pronouncing every syllable. He had an eloquent manner of speaking.

I paused, wondering what he meant. My hand was still extended, holding out the socks which he was ignoring. I dropped my arm, grasping firm on the socks consciously. I was troubled by this boy. He spoke in cryptic prose.

“That would kill you. Or hurt you pretty badly,” I said finally.

“Yes,” he said. Then: “It would probably kill me.”

I thought about this.

“No,” I said. “No, the train slows down as it comes in, so it might not be fast enough to kill you. You’d probably hit the front of the train and be pushed along on the window until it becomes so slow that you fall on to the track, and end up half under the wheels. You’d probably have a 50/50 chance of losing your legs or your head. So, either paralysed or dead. I think.”

He was looking at the tracks now. I looked at the clock again. 9:59.

“You said that you didn’t want me to stop you, which sounds like you were going to jump in front of the train, even though you seemed to think it would kill you. Can I ask you something?”

“Yeah.”

“Why are you at the train station so late?”

“What?”

“I’m the only person here every morning at 10 o’clock.”

“I don’t want to go to school.”

“Don’t then.”

“I have to. It’s the law.”

“It’s the law to not jump in front of trains.”

He paused, then said, “Yes. But the only person who gets in trouble if I break that law is me. If I don’t go to school then my Mum gets in trouble.”

“If you jump in front of a train then you won’t be able to go to school. So your Mum would get in trouble anyway.”

“I’d be dead.”

“Or paralysed.”

The boy took in a deep breath, raising his shoulders, and heaved the air out of his lungs, moving his shoulders down as he exhaled. “Yes,” he said.

“Do you want my socks?” I asked him. I felt that the conversation was coming to a close.

“No. No thank you. My socks don’t have a hole in them.”

“OK,” I said, and went to sit back down, noticing that it was now 10:02. I put the socks back in my bag, feeling slightly relieved that the boy hadn’t taken them, because if he had, I would not have had a spare pair until I came home.

The announcement came over the speaker that the train was approaching. I stood up and moved to my usual position where I knew the train doors to my usual carriage would stop. I waited patiently. The boy also stood up. He picked up his socks and held them in his hand. The train appeared around the corner. I watched as the boy picked up his bag and moved away from me further down the platform, away from the train. He stopped a few yards from me. He still had bare feet.

I faced forwards as the train pulled in to the station. The doors opened and I climbed on, as the boy stepped up in to the carriage that was next to mine. I took my usual seat and looked out of the window to check, as usual, that I had not left anything behind. I hadn’t, as usual. The train pulled out of the station.

Constructive criticism and comments would be appreciated if you have anything to suggest

I liked this , I did not expect that the boy was intending to kill himself though This story was worth my time The only bad thing about this is that you have to increase the size of the font :P Small font is irritating

(Original post by sammy-lou)
There is something exquisitely romantic about the decrepit village train station at 10 o’clock in the morning. The crisp morning bite is still in the air, but the morning’s commuters have long ago dispersed, scurrying out to their various destinations like ants from a disturbed nest. Trains continue to move according to their regular schedules, either coming to a halt at the platform, or speeding past with a penetrating blast of the horn.
It is usually only me on the third platform at this time; it is the penultimate stop from the end of the line, meaning that there is only one possible destination from here. The end is a destination much the same as the one come to: a small station in a minor, insignificant town. Not many people wish to visit it – most people riding to the end of the line are school children, or commuters who all work in the same large office block in the town. It did not take me long, after I moved here a few years ago, to adjust my schedule so that it avoided the crowds of gaggling youngsters and miserable-faced 20-somethings. Misanthropic I may be, but this did indeed serve a purely practical purpose. I would physically feel my stress levels soar as I was the victim of yet another person’s blatant disregard for the ‘quiet zone’ of the train. The regular fare-evading I would watch as a tired train guard preyed on an innocent teenager who had misplaced their ticket, while the silent commuter adjacent to the prey sat in satisfied contentment that their own sin would go undiscovered for yet another day. The perpetual battle of the ‘Local Comprehensive Chavs’ vs ‘Private School Preps’. Window open or window shut? The ever-present lone shape shifter, who would always, without fail, sit in a six seat bay, when a two seat bay was available. For the sake of my own well-being and sanity, I would delay my daily travel by two hours, to avoid the infuriating flaws of people who I did not know, but felt I knew far too well.
I liked my schedule, and had grown comfortable with it. It suited me well, and I felt that I was doing my lonely train a service by boarding at this time, so that it continued to have a purpose. This was a responsibility I took upon myself with the greatest of commitment, and so I was understandably disturbed when I arrived at the train station on the morning in question, to find an individual sitting on the ground, with his legs dangling over the edge of the platform. I did not recognise him, and so did not understand why he was there at this time. It bothered me that he was there. I felt that maybe I should go to him, and ask who he was. Why he was there at 10 o’clock in the morning, when he had never been before. If he was intending to make this a regular occurrence.
But it seemed to me that this may be too personal. People do not like to make contact with other people unless absolutely necessary. People avoid not only verbal contact, but eye contact, geographical proximity, and certainly body contact. People are described in ecological and evolutionary studies as ‘social creatures’, but this is a lie. People are not social creatures at all, but more solitary souls that are condemned to socialise, because without this function we would go nowhere, and achieve nothing. People are not really human, but parasitic - feeding off the skills and energy of others, so that we can fuel our own movement in the direction that we think we should be taking. There would really be no use in approaching the boy and asking who he was and why he was there and if he was going to be there tomorrow or the next day or the days following.
But his presence continued to make me uneasy. I looked at the clock on the station platform: 9:53. The train that I get on every morning is reliable, usually turning up at 9:59 and leaving at 10:00 sharp. Underneath the clock is the live running schedule of the trains, and I was irritated to see that my train was delayed by 4 minutes. This meant that there were 11 minutes until the train would leave my platform with me, and presumably this boy, on board. This was unusual. I could see my seat a short walk down the platform, and I approached it, because my schedule was now disturbed enough, and I saw no reason to allow this boy’s presence to stop me from taking my usual seat.
I sat down, and was almost directly behind the boy, who was still sitting on the platform edge, dangling his legs over the side. I was closer to him now, and saw that he was wearing the uniform of the private school. This meant that he was late for school already, and the delayed train meant that he would be even later. I was happy to see that he was in school uniform. This meant that he would not be at the station every morning when I was, meaning that my schedule would return to normal. Good. I could see that the boy was about 16 years old, nearly 10 years my junior. He was quiet small, but the whisper of facial hair around his jawline told me that he was older than his size suggested. He had a rucksack next to him on the platform, and I could see a pair of shiny black school shoes protruding from the bag. I wondered what he had on his feet. Probably trainers for walking to school, or for sports lessons. In between the bag and the boy was a pair of socks, unfolded and crumpled, as if they had just been taken off of his feet. This bothered me. Why had he taken his socks off? It was a November morning, and the frost was beginning to take hold. The boy was hunched over as if he were cold, but seemed to be making no effort to warm up. I thought that his toes must be cold. Maybe his socks had a hole in. And his smart shoes were rubbing through the hole, so he had changed in to trainers for a more comfortable journey to school. Maybe he was late because he had noticed the hole, returned home for another pair of socks, but not been able to find any.
I felt sorry for the boy, although his presence still annoyed me. I knew there were some socks in my bag, because I carry a spare pair of everything, in case it rains and my umbrella breaks, or in case somebody throws something at me and dirties my clothes. I found the socks, and held them in my hand for a moment. I could take them to the boy, and use the opportunity to make sure that he would not be here again tomorrow. Yes. I looked at the clock again. It was now 9:56, and the train was still expected at 10:04.
“Do your socks have a hole in them?”
His head shot round; he did not seem to have realised I was there. I was standing directly besides him now, facing towards him and looking down to where he was sat.
“What?” he said.
“Your socks. Do they have a hole?” I said.
He looked dazed, so I held out the socks in my hand to him.
“You can have these,” I said. “Keep them so you can put your smart shoes back on, you don’t need to give them back. You won’t be here again, will you?”
He continued to look at me, and now appeared suspicious. I looked down at his feet, and saw that he didn’t have trainers on, but his feet were bare.
“Aren’t your feet cold?”
He looked down at his feet, and fixed on them for 10 seconds.
“Don’t try to stop me,” he said.
“Stop you doing what?”
“Jumping.”
“Where?”
“What?”
“Jumping where?”
He moved his eyes slowly from his feet to me.
“In front of the train,” he said, pronouncing every syllable. He had an eloquent manner of speaking.
I paused, wondering what he meant. My hand was still extended, holding out the socks which he was ignoring. I dropped my arm, grasping firm on the socks consciously. I was troubled by this boy. He spoke in cryptic prose.
“That would kill you. Or hurt you pretty badly,” I said finally.
“Yes,” he said. Then: “It would probably kill me.”
I thought about this.
“No,” I said. “No, the train slows down as it pulls in, so it might not be fast enough to kill you. You’d probably hit the front of the train and be pushed along on the window until it becomes so slow that you fall on to the track, and end up half under the wheels. You’d probably have a 50/50 chance of losing your legs of your head. So, either paralysed or dead. I think.”
He was looking at the tracks now. I looked at the clock again. 9:59.
“You said that you didn’t want me to stop you, which sounds like you were going to jump in front of the train, even though you seemed to think it would kill you. Can I ask you something?”
“Yeah.”
“Why are you at the train station so late?”
“What?”
“I’m the only person here every morning at 10 o’clock.”
“I don’t want to go to school.”
“Don’t then.”
“I have to. It’s the law.”
“It’s the law to not jump in front of trains.”
He paused, then said, “Yes. But the only person who gets in trouble if I break that law is me. If I don’t go to school then my Mum gets in trouble.”
“If you jump in front of a train then you won’t be able to go to school. So your Mum would get in trouble anyway.”
“I’d be dead.”
“Or paralysed.”
The boy took in a deep breath, raising his shoulders, and heaved the air out of his lungs, moving his shoulders down as he exhaled. “Yes,” he said.
“Do you want my socks?” I asked him. I felt that the conversation was coming to a close.
“No. No thank you. My socks don’t have a hole in them.”
“OK,” I said, and went to sit back down, noticing that it was now 10:02. I put the socks back in my bag, feeling slightly relieved that the boy hadn’t taken them, because if he had, I would not have had a spare pair until I came home.
The announcement came over the speaker that the train was approaching. I stood up and moved to my usual position where I knew the train doors to my usual carriage would stop. I waited patiently.
The boy also stood up. He picked up his socks and held them in his hand. The train appeared around the corner. I watched as the boy picked up his bag and moved away from me further down the platform, away from the train. He stopped a few yards from me. He still had bare feet.
I faced forwards as the train pulled in to the station. The doors opened and I climbed on, as the boy stepped up in to the carriage that was next to mine. I took my usual seat and looked out of the window to check, as usual, that I had not left anything behind. I hadn’t, as usual. The train pulled out of the station.

Constructive criticism and comments would be appreciated if you have anything to suggest

I've highlighted a couple of what I think are typos but it's late so I can't promise I'm right . Other than that I quite liked the style though I'm not so sure about the plot but that's more subjective so plenty of people might do. The beginning reminded me of a short story by Roald Dhal in Skin (not Skin itself).

(Original post by arnoob)
I liked this , I did not expect that the boy was intending to kill himself though This story was worth my time The only bad thing about this is that you have to increase the size of the font :P Small font is irritating

Thanks! I'll change the font size now

(Original post by curtis871)
I've highlighted a couple of what I think are typos but it's late so I can't promise I'm right . Other than that I quite liked the style though I'm not so sure about the plot but that's more subjective so plenty of people might do. The beginning reminded me of a short story by Roald Dhal in Skin (not Skin itself).

Ooops, thanks for pointing those out, your quite right on both! I'll change those. I've not read any short stories by Roald Dahl, did he write stories for adult readers as well?

(Original post by sammy-lou)
Ooops, thanks for pointing those out, your quite right on both! I'll change those. I've not read any short stories by Roald Dahl, did he write stories for adult readers as well?

No problem, it's often easier to spot them in other people's work than it is your own.

His writing career started with (fabricated) stories about his time as a pilot for adults. He really was a pilot but for instance in Shot down over Libya instead of being shot down he actually got lost and ran out of fuel. After his first childrens book (Gremlins which despite what he claimed Gremlins had been an RAF legend since he was around not invented by him) there were calls for him to stop writing for children and go back to what he was good at. I'm guessing those people felt a bit stupid afterwards!

Sorry I think I went off on tangent a bit but he's done a lot of interesting things (spy, pilot, army officer, screen writer, inventor etc).

Can't say i read many short stories but this i like, i love how descriptive it was and it seemed like you really made an effort and the atmosphere it created was pretty damn good in my opinion, personally i love mostly descriptive stories as i can get the feel for them more and that's what i like writing as well It's a great short story.

(i hate liking something short because i always want to read more !!) It makes me want to read more of it

(Original post by curtis871)
No problem, it's often easier to spot them in other people's work than it is your own.

His writing career started with (fabricated) stories about his time as a pilot for adults. He really was a pilot but for instance in Shot down over Libya instead of being shot down he actually got lost and ran out of fuel. After his first childrens book (Gremlins which despite what he claimed Gremlins had been an RAF legend since he was around not invented by him) there were calls for him to stop writing for children and go back to what he was good at. I'm guessing those people felt a bit stupid afterwards!

Sorry I think I went off on tangent a bit but he's done a lot of interesting things (spy, pilot, army officer, screen writer, inventor etc).

He sounds like an interesting man, you certainly know your stuff!

(Original post by xx-Samantha-xx)
Can't say i read many short stories but this i like, i love how descriptive it was and it seemed like you really made an effort and the atmosphere it created was pretty damn good in my opinion, personally i love mostly descriptive stories as i can get the feel for them more and that's what i like writing as well It's a great short story.

(i hate liking something short because i always want to read more !!) It makes me want to read more of it

I'm glad you liked it, thank you! I know what you mean about liking short texts, I get the same thing when I read. I just struggle to write anything particularly long because I find it difficult to maintain any kind of quality through out.

(Original post by sammy-lou)
I'm glad you liked it, thank you! I know what you mean about liking short texts, I get the same thing when I read. I just struggle to write anything particularly long because I find it difficult to maintain any kind of quality through out.

Well, if i'm honest, i find it hard as well to keep the same quality, especially if i'm updating chapters for stories that i haven't written in a long time (i post too much on fanfiction all at once lol) and i hate ending a story, i always seem to do really bad endings in my opinion but other people seem to like it so i'm happy

Have you thought about entering competitions and the like?

Some sound really fun but i never think i can write worth a damn so i don't bother, though i did enter a poem once a long time ago in high school haha

Do you have any other short stories here, i'd very much like to read them

(Original post by sammy-lou)
He sounds like an interesting man, you certainly know your stuff!

I'm something of a fan . You do need to watch out for his artistic licence when telling things (like being shot down) or James and the giant peach being his first childrens book (Gremlins flopped so he pretended in public it didn't exist for a few decades).

(Original post by xx-Samantha-xx)
Well, if i'm honest, i find it hard as well to keep the same quality, especially if i'm updating chapters for stories that i haven't written in a long time (i post too much on fanfiction all at once lol) and i hate ending a story, i always seem to do really bad endings in my opinion but other people seem to like it so i'm happy

Have you thought about entering competitions and the like?

Some sound really fun but i never think i can write worth a damn so i don't bother, though i did enter a poem once a long time ago in high school haha

Do you have any other short stories here, i'd very much like to read them

Na I've never entered a competition, partly because I don't know where to find them and partly because I've never had the confidence to!

I don't have any other short stories, this is actually the first one I've finished, but I have posted a load of poetry if your interested at all?

(Original post by curtis871)
I'm something of a fan . You do need to watch out for his artistic licence when telling things (like being shot down) or James and the giant peach being his first childrens book (Gremlins flopped so he pretended in public it didn't exist for a few decades).

Yeah I've not heard of Gremlins at all, is it actually not any good? I forgot how much I loved Dahl as a kid! George's Marvellous Medicine was probably my favourite

(Original post by sammy-lou)
It sounds good from what you said but I'd be interested to read it!

You can pick up reprints with the original Disney drawings for around £6 or pay several thousand pounds for one that's identical but second hand, I'm guessing the choice isn't too hard . Hopefully you enjoy it but if not add a few stains, bend the spine and hope it passes for an original (if this works feel free to send me half the money as a good will gesture).

(Original post by curtis871)
You can pick up reprints with the original Disney drawings for around £6 or pay several thousand pounds for one that's identical but second hand, I'm guessing the choice isn't too hard . Hopefully you enjoy it but if not add a few stains, bend the spine and hope it passes for an original (if this works feel free to send me half the money as a good will gesture).

Haha, ah if only I had several thousand pounds to fritter. I may give the second option a go!